Casing the Colors © Week 12

Casing the Colors © Week 12 • • • CHAPTER 23 • • Veracruz is a provincial, isolated, stand-alone city on the Gulf of Mexico, just north of the Yucatan Peninsula three hours east of Mexico City by train. Its stucco buildings baking in the sun are worn smooth and colorless by the constant gritty wind swirling into the city from the empty seaside sand dunes. Everyone looks slightly tired from the constant need to resist the battering. Veracruz survives on its port, the largest in Mexico, and on fishing and industrial activities, undisturbed by most events in the capital. The city welcomes strangers and feeds them well on delicious shrimp and fish. Otherwise, it leaves them alone, convinced they would be somewhere else if they had a choice. The Yucatan Hotel occupied a block in the downtown area, where restaurants mingle with shops, office buildings and apartments. Carlos Miguel couldn't have picked a better place to talk without being observed, Kate Gordon thought as she and Dave Browning were driven into town. A few American cars, VW beetles and colorful taxis greeted Kate Gordon and Dave Browning when their limousine pulled up to the hotel's white entrance. The hotel rose several stories above the entrance court, supported on thick columns connected by open lattice work. The rooms clustered inside the columns, forming the structural core of the hotel. The lacy outer walls separated the reception, bar and dining room from the street and give relief from the heat, but they also let in the ubiquitous sand. The obviously American pair checked in and followed a bellboy who had picked up their bags. Their rooms were next to each other on the third floor. "I'll meet you here in the hall in five minutes, Dave," Kate said. "I need to make the phone call." She dialed the desk to ask for the number written on the slip of paper Chelenko had given her but before she could say anything, a voice said, "Miss Gordon, please wait." In moments, a second voice came on the line. "Welcome to Veracruz, Miss Gordon. Do you have something to say to me?" Kate answered, "Tolkouchka." "Yes, Miss Gordon, not a Spanish word, but one can buy beautiful rings at a tolkouchka, I am told. Go to the dining room and order lunch. I will come to your table in an hour to take you to the meeting. Do not contact anyone. Do you understand?" "Yes," she replied. "How will I know you?" "I will identify myself to your satisfaction," the voice answered before the line went dead. Out in the hall, Dave was pacing and smoking a cigarette. When Kate appeared, he followed her to the dining room. He ordered a scotch and she asked for a gin and tonic. They ate grilled shrimp and tried to make small talk through what seemed to be an eternity of nervously waiting for something to happen. Finally, a Mexican in black slacks and a white-on-white embroidered shirt came toward the table. He was in his thirties, tall and muscular, with a pleasant face. He smiled as he approached them. "Miss Gordon, Mr. Browning. Welcome. My name is Gabriel. May I sit down?" he asked as he eased into a chair at their table. "Miss Gordon, I have a little gift for you." He put a tissue into her hand. It contained a ring exactly like the one Alexei had given her, but much larger. She regarded it with disbelief. "You will know who to return it to," Gabriel said solemnly, sounding as if he had no idea where it came from. She put the ring into her purse as Dave watched in curious silence. "If you have finished your meal, we should leave," Gabriel said. "It is a half-hour drive to the meeting. You can have coffee afterward." Kate wasn't sure if he meant to calm them by his choice of the word, afterward, but it had that effect. She felt her shoulder muscles relax as they walked toward the black limousine waiting at the curb outside the hotel. Gabriel headed south along a highway shimmering with watery heat mirages that disappeared as the car approached them, only to re-appear farther down the road. He asked if they wanted to listen to the radio. Dave barked no and then glumly settled back to watch industrial sites give way to clusters of bungalows and finally to empty desert stretching away toward the Gulf of Mexico on one side of the road and toward the mountains on the other side. They drove in silence for twenty minutes. Finally, they turned east into the sand dunes and continued for several more minutes, stopping in front of a large, weathered wood and screen beach house. Another limousine was parked near the bungalow. Its driver stood beside it in a pose suggesting an order to stay alert which was being obeyed without appreciation of its necessity. Two young men of ordinary height but with muscular arms, dressed like Gabriel in black slacks and white embroidered shirts, met them at the door and started to pat down Dave, looking for hidden weapons. "Get your hands off me," Dave spat, brushing their hands away. One of the men slapped him lightly on his shoulder, forcing him to stand his ground in order not to be pushed backward. "Mr. Browning, please don't do that," Gabriel urged, as Dave moved toward the man. The other man rummaged halfheartedly through the rather small purse Kate was carrying and handed it back to her. She caught her breath, hoping he wouldn't notice the ring, but he was looking for recording devices and weapons. Satisfied, he motioned for them to go inside. It took several seconds for their eyes to adjust to the shaded interior. When she could see, Kate noticed him, a slight built man in his late fifties with very dark skin, white hair and a trimmed white mustache. He was wearing a carefully tailored tropical tan suit with short sleeves and epaulets. A gold chain showed at the jacket's open neck and one wrist was encircled by a large gold watch bracelet. He was sitting in a club chair, dark glasses hiding his eyes, a crystal goblet of what looked like Coca Cola in his hand. For Kate, the total effect was more that of a provincial Mexican politician than a nefarious drug king, but it was indeed the infamous Carlos Miguel. "Carlos," Dave shouted, striding across the room to grasp Miguel's hand. "How the hell are you? I haven't seen you for too long." "That's because Miss Gordon takes such good care of my people," Miguel answered, motioning for them to sit in the chairs angled to face his. "You old bastard," Dave continued casually, "what do you mean having me frisked. I haven't carried a gun for years and you know it." "Sorry, my friend, but today it was necessary. Would you like a scotch or a Coke? Or perhaps a beer?" he asked as one of the young bodyguards arrived carrying a tray, which he held in front of each guest, so they could select for themselves. "I understand that you want to talk to me, Dave," Carlos said. "May I guess that it is about my recent Mexican activities?" "Damn right, friend. But, Kate will do the talking. I'm only along because I enjoy being seen with a pretty young woman, especially when she's my lawyer," he gloated, finishing his beer in two long drinks and holding the empty glass out beside his chair, instinctively demanding service. The young man replaced the empty glass with a full one. Kate watched Dave Browning and Carlos Miguel. Dave wore a suit similar to Miguel's, but without gold chains at his throat or wrists. She knew they were old friends, but she had no idea whether the friendship was real or simply the interplay of two gigantic egos who liked to test each other occasionally. It eased her apprehension somewhat to see them talking unguardedly. "Senor Miguel," she began, "the United States is concerned about the army and weapons being massed along the Rio Grande. We believe you can help us arrange to disband the army and have the weapons turned over to a neutral representative." "Miss Gordon," he answered, "let me make a counteroffer, in the hope that you have not really come all this way merely to ask me to give up. I want your country. The southwest is the first installment. Inform your government that I want Texas. And New Mexico. And Arizona. And California." He pronounced each name deliberately, with chilling reserve and precision. "But, that is impossible," Kate responded. "You must realize that." "Impossible? You took them from Mexico when she was too weak to resist, didn't you?" "That was long ago," she managed to reply, baffled by his audacity. She knew that she must appear strong, so she looked at him boldly to gain control of the exchange, but his eyes laughed back at her. She saw something more than insolence in Carlos Miguel's eyes. There was passion, the same passion she saw when Dave Browning spoke of money or, she shuddered inwardly, when Scott spoke of war. Dave downed his second beer and jumped to his feet. "You crazy old cuss," he said, chuckling. "You know we can't trade away the United States. What do you really want?" "Dave, my friend, that is precisely what I want...the United States. My people have watched Americans enjoy all the good things of the world for far too long. Now it's our turn to be fat and comfortable," he said calmly, as if he were preparing to buy a block of Dallas real estate. "Carlos," Kate said, allowing herself to regard once again this man whose madness was so concentrated that it made him seem rational, "you are fabulously rich and powerful. You possess more than most governments control. Enjoy what you have. Don't destroy yourself." "Come on, Carlos, you didn't get where you are by worrying about your people. Let's have a drink and try to work this mess out," Dave coaxed. "Dave, don't sell me short. You've given me a lot of money and we've built schools and hospitals with it." "So you could sell drugs to the kids who filled the playgrounds," Dave replied. "Don't bullshit me. What do you want? How much? I'll write you a check." "I have all the money I need, Dave, and I got it the same way you did. I cheated and fought and killed, from the time my mother was knifed by a man fighting over her in the barrios in Caracas. He left me on the street beside her body. I think I was four years old. I don't even remember what she looked like." "Carlos, don't do this to yourself," Dave pleaded. "Let me help you work your way out of this mess." "I don't need help, Dave. America has had more than enough time to share its wealth voluntarily with us but it has shown its utter unwillingness. So, I'm going to take what I want. And what I want is to leave behind a better life for my people. And your own poor brown and black Americans are going to help me." "If you give me a list of your demands, I can negotiate for you," Kate said. "Miss Gordon, let me say it again more clearly. If the United States has not agreed to my proposal in seventy-two hours, we will begin a systematic war of a kind America has never experienced. Believe me." "Carlos...friend," Dave said, "this is a bad joke. Talk to me. You know me. You know you can trust me. Don't get yourself and a lot of other people killed. That won't help anybody." "You saw the people in Atlanta. Did they look productive and happy?" The image of Scott on the US military tank and the black woman opposing him filled Kate with a sense of hopelessness. Without waiting for an answer, he added, "And what did you see in Moscow?" Carlos Miguel asked, looking at Kate. Remembering Gabriel's message and the ring, she asked, "What do you know about Moscow? How did Gabriel get his information?" "Damn it," Dave interrupted, not understanding the conversation now being played out, "call off Raqqa. He's a maggot feeding on all of us." "Dave, let me tell you something. Raqqa is like you and me. We survive because we're smart and tough. We make lots of money and we use it, because most people don't have the guts or the wits to stop us. We give our friends what they want, money to buy respect from the world, and maybe a woman and some good crack and a car. They're loyal because they remember when the world looked through them as if they didn't exist. I know what those looks feel like and so do you. That's why you're so damned rich you can't count it all. And, you know me well enough to know that we have another trait in common. When I start something, I finish it." "What about Mexico's position?" Kate asked. "The Mexican government has no position," Miguel responded, his voice matter of fact. "It would prefer I weren't here, if that is your question, Miss Gordon, but Mexico will not try to stop me. Your government has already been told as much. If the United States attacks us in Mexico, we will respond, I can assure you." "What is your interest in Europe?" "It is my friends who want Europe." "You mean Africans and Arabs." "They are often the same," Carlos responded pedantically. His voice hard. "Europe has much more than Africa and we plan to take our share of it, too." Carlos opened his arms toward Dave. "Old friend, don't sit by in New York while your world is destroyed. All your interests are here. You will finally have a home, many homes, and friends. Stay with us. Don't lose everything you've worked for in the mistaken notion that America loves you or that it represents something sacred." Dave turned away from Carlos. He walked toward the door slowly while Carlos waited motionless. At the door, Dave turned to face Carlos. His voice was remote, like a man ending a difficult conversation with the woman he loves but doesn't trust. "Carlos, how can you be so goddamned stubborn? We can give you whatever you really want. Why fight for it when it's already available?" Then Dave's shoulders sagged and he looked old and unsure. "We'll talk again," Carlos said, crossing the room to grip Dave's arms as if to give him courage. "We'll talk again. But, now let's have a drink before you go." He motioned to one of the bodyguards, who disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a bottle of Glenlivet and three elaborately cut crystal whisky glasses on a tray. The three stood in a triangle, facing one another as they took their glasses, holding them out so the young man could fill them with the clear golden malt. Then they raised the glasses together in a silent toast, to what end was left unspoken. As Kate and Dave walked toward the limousine, Gabriel appeared and took his place beside Dave. They went on ahead and Carlos moved toward Kate, touching her on the arm to slow her. "Katharine, do not be misled. Your country is in great danger. Make them understand." "I'll try. But, you must understand the futility of your demand. No one wants to fight, but we can't simply abandon the southwest." "Before this is over, many of your citizens will demand that you do just that," he replied. "But you, my dear, have another destiny. Don't squander it, but beware of empty idealists. They are always more dangerous than we who are realists. We understand that men will follow only if they are personally compensated." "I'm American," she said quietly. "I believe in the ideals." "Don't be misled," Carlos repeated. Call Chelenko when you want to talk. And, remember, seventy-two hours. After that, I will talk to you, but not to your government." Kate could feel herself stiffen as Carlos Miguel kissed her cheeks. "I didn't know about the Vice President," he said, sensing her recoil, "I would have stopped it. But, the next time, I will know and you may be sure that I won't interfere. We will not harm you, Katharine. There is no need to be frightened of me. I'm no more mad than Stuart Wellford or Scott Bennett. We all need power, so that we can do what we want without asking permission. They say they want a better America. I want a better world for my people. Maybe it's penance for my past." He helped her into the limousine and tapped its trunk nonchalantly as he turned to re-enter the bungalow. Was Carlos actually a friend of Alexei, she wondered, or was he simply using his contact with Chelenko to unnerve her. • • Gabriel pulled onto the road to retrace the route into Veracruz. As they rode along the highway, Kate watched the sun setting behind the mountains between Veracruz and Mexico City. Its deep reds and burnished oranges were painted on the horizon by the same dust that makes North African sunsets fiery displays of extraordinary beauty. She felt hidden away and small, lost in a world that had melted and reformed itself into a shape she couldn't recognize. Only natural things, like the Yucatan sunset, were real. "Hey kid, remember me. I'm your date." Dave's voice startled her out of her reverie. "Sorry, I was thinking about Carlos. What can I do for you, pardneh?" she asked in a mock drawl, trying to lift their spirits. "Well, dammit, just like all lawyers, you've led me here without delivering the goods," Dave answered. "Where are my tacos?" Kate laughed for the first time since arriving in Veracruz. "We aim to please," she said. "Gabriel, do you know a place where we can get a good meal, the real thing, with lots of beer to put out the fire." "Yes ma'am. It's near the market, but it's not very fancy. Do you want me to take you?" "Yes, and we want you to eat with us. Please." In the little cafe, Mexican clay animals holding plastic flowers sat on the tables covered with orange oilcloth. The smell of hot oil frying corn and flour tortillas permeated the room. "Dave, you sweetheart," she said, falling into a chair, "it's just what the doctor ordered. Right down to the beer," she added, eyeing the list taped on the wall. They ate enough for six people, sampling everything as Gabriel and Dave took turns ordering tortillas, tacos and enchiladas, all with hot and hotter sauces. "Do you work for Carlos?" Kate asked Gabriel as they settled into the main course, a local specialty of fresh fish cooked in green tomato and shrimp sauce. "Sometimes," he replied. "But, most of the time, I just drive my limousine for businessmen. Carlos sends them to me. He gave me my limo so I can support my family and be available to work for him when he needs me." "How did you get the ring you gave me?" "Carlos gave it to me. He told me you would say tolkouchka. It is very hard for me to pronounce the word. What does it mean?" "It's a flea market, like your weekly markets in Mexico. In Moscow they call them tolkouchkas." "Have you been to Moscow?" he asked, putting his fork down as the notion of actually visiting a place as far away as Moscow took hold of him. "Yes. It's a very old and interesting city. But, its people need help. Like the people Carlos says he wants to help." "Today you talked about war. War will never help anyone." "We hope to avoid war. What did Carlos tell you about us?" "He told me to stay with you until your plane leaves. He said if anything happens to you, he will kill me. Carlos never lies," Gabriel added flatly, as he downed a long draught of his beer. • • Carlos Miguel was ahead of the American curve. Before getting in his helicopter to head back to one of his fortified hideaways in the empty space between Veracruz and Mexico City, he had made a phone call. "Did you deliver the ultimatum?" the voice asked in a clipped Oxford accent only slightly betrayed by its Arabic edge. "Of course," Miguel replied. "You should have seen Miss Gordon's reaction. We had better get ready for the next chapter. I don't think her friends will react differently than she did." "It is already set up," the voice responded. Putting down the portable phone, the slightly built, trim man in his late forties, with black hair and olive skin, leaned down to kiss the woman lying on a nearby chaise lounge. "I have to go to a meeting," he said. "I'm sorry, Darling, but it's a very important deal. I won't be back today." "I'm going to Washington tomorrow," she replied casually. "I'll ring you tomorrow night. One of my drivers will take you home." He patted her cheek and then strode across the terrace onto the sunny poolside of his house high above the Los Angeles basin. He tightened his silk Hermes tie and smoothed his perfectly-fitting Armani jacket as he approached three younger men, one Arabic and two black. "Let's hit the wall," he said, not even looking back at the woman in his haste to get to the car parked in the driveway beyond the pool.